"Don't get me wrong-there are quite a few goodies for me, too." She took a sip of coffee. "You sure can't find stuff like this in Dallas-there's no place like New York for serious shopping. Except maybe Paris. London's good, too."

"It must be nice," said Lucy, who had never been out of the country and longed to visit places she'd read about. As soon as she'd said it, she wished she hadn't. She hoped there hadn't been any hint of jealousy in her tone.

"Believe me, honey, it is nice and I appreciate every cent I spend. I grew up poor, you know, and I don't intend to set my foot in a Wal-Mart ever again, not if I can help it."

"I don't blame you," said Lucy, completely disarmed by Cathy's frankness.

"I tell you, my first trip to Paris was a real eye-opener: there was no pink polyester anywhere! You can be sure I reported on that fact for the folks at home. And I also told them nobody wore those enormous white athletic shoes you see everywhere here."

"So you traveled for your job?"

"I sure did. I was like a yo-yo, back and forth across the Atlantic, so the folks in Dallas would know what was in fashion." She paused. "Not that I'm complaining. It was great fun, but now that I'm a wife and stepmom my traveling days are pretty much over. We have a full social calendar, and my husband needs me to entertain and to accompany him to events. I'll be running my feet off when I get home-Tiffany's coming out this spring, you know, at the Yellow Rose of Texas Ball and I want her to be the Texas Belle of the Year."

"How lovely," said Lucy, realizing that Cathy's privileged life was work in its way, too. "You know, I was wondering about a few things and I thought you might have the answers."

"Maybe, maybe not," she said with a shrug. "Fire away."

"Well, I heard a rumor that Arnold was planning to buy Jolie Jolie magazine and make Nadine editor. Do you know anything about that?" magazine and make Nadine editor. Do you know anything about that?"

"That rag is for sale, I can tell you that, and I'd bet my six-carat engagement ring that Camilla isn't happy about it because the first thing any buyer is going to do is take a long hard look at the job she's been doing. But I never heard Arnold named as a possible buyer." She studied the ring, which sparkled in the sunlight coming through the window. "If he was thinking of buying it he certainly wouldn't have put Nadine in charge-he's too smart a businessman for that. Nadine would just drive it into the ground. Believe me, I know about men like Arnold. He wants to make money, that's what he's all about, and there's no way he would throw his capital into a sinkhole like Jolie Jolie magazine." magazine."

"Not even as a payoff to Nadine for putting up with his affairs?"

Cathy snorted. "He didn't need to pay her off. If she didn't like it, she could leave, right? And there was no sign she was planning to do that. Besides, from what I've heard, his money's all tied up in his real estate projects. I don't think he could afford Jolie Jolie."

"I thought he was enormously rich," said Lucy.

"Oh, honey, there's rich and then there's rich. rich. These real estate guys are all the same. They've got lots of buildings and stuff, but cash flow is always a problem, which means they've got to borrow and put off payments, stuff like that." Her eyes gleamed wickedly. "But now that Nadine's gone, I imagine his position has improved." These real estate guys are all the same. They've got lots of buildings and stuff, but cash flow is always a problem, which means they've got to borrow and put off payments, stuff like that." Her eyes gleamed wickedly. "But now that Nadine's gone, I imagine his position has improved."

"What do you mean?"

"Insurance, sweetie. I bet he'll pick up a million or two, which should relieve his cash flow problems for a while, anyway."

"At least," said Lucy, mentally kicking herself. Insurance. Why hadn't she thought of that? Rich people had life insurance, too. They could afford lots of it. Arnold suddenly went from the bottom of her list of suspects to the top. You could never ignore the basics, and the husband was always the prime suspect. If only she could talk to Arnold one on one, but how was she going to do that? Considering the way he'd kicked her out of the funeral it was hardly likely that he'd agree to see her.

"I'm ready, let's go." Tiffany was standing in the doorway, dressed in the teen uniform of tight jeans, tiny T, and shrunken blazer.

"Mrs. Stone is here, Tiffany." Cathy's voice was gentle, almost a whisper.

"Oh, I'm sorry." The girl was blushing. "I didn't mean to be rude. Hi, Mrs. Stone. Good morning. Can I get you some coffee?"

"I've got some. Actually, I should be going. I'm on my way to the hospital."

"How is Elizabeth? Say hi to her for me, okay?"

"I will." Lucy stood up and picked her coat off the back of the chair. "She's doing fine. I think we'll be able to go home soon."

"Wait for me, we can all go down together," said Cathy, shoving her foot into a sleek ankle boot and zipping it up. "Get the coats, please, Tiffany."

Tiffany opened a coat closet next to the front door, a feature that Lucy hadn't imagined existed in hotels, and pulled out a white parka for herself and a tawny full-length fur for Cathy. Lucy's jaw dropped at the sight; she'd never seen anything so fabulous. Whatever it was, lynx maybe, it was a lot more glamorous than mink. She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking to try it on. Cathy, however, treated it just like any coat, shrugging into it as they left the suite and patting the pockets to check for her gloves.

While they waited for the elevator Lucy broached her second question. "The other thing I was wondering about has to do with Elise."

"Ah, Elise," said Cathy, raising her eyebrows.

"What do you mean?" asked Lucy.

"That woman is living proof that it's who you know and not what you know that matters," said Cathy. "Camilla pulled her out from nowhere about two years ago and named her fashion editor. It was weird, even for Camilla. I mean, that's the sort of job people usually work into over many years. A good fashion editor knows the designers personally, she has relationships with them. She knows their histories, their muses, their influences."

The elevator came and they all got on.

"Do you know what she did before she joined the magazine?" asked Lucy.

"It wasn't fashion, that's for sure." Cathy snorted. "I don't think Elise could tell a Jean-Paul Gaultier creation from a Calvin Klein."

The elevator doors opened and Cathy sailed into the lobby, turning every head. The bellhops and desk staff all smiled and greeted her, and the doorman stepped smartly to open the door for her. Lucy and Tiffany followed in her wake as, smiling and waving at everyone, she swept through the door onto the sidewalk, where she suddenly stopped.

Lucy watched, horrified, as a motorcycle with two helmeted riders dressed in gleaming black suits suddenly jumped the curb and came directly toward Cathy. She attempted to dodge the machine, and the doorman rushed to help her, but it was too late. She couldn't avoid the bucket of red paint that drenched her beautiful fur coat.

The driver wheeled the motorcycle around, attempting to escape, but the doorman heroically threw himself at the passenger. Lucy caught a glimpse of the driver's shiny imitation leather suit, embellished with numerous zippers, as the motorbike roared off. She rushed to Cathy's side and saw a uniformed cop pounding down the sidewalk to assist the doorman, who was struggling with the attacker he'd dragged off the motorcycle. The cop fumbled, attempting to handcuff the culprit, who took the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and dashed nimbly down the sidewalk and around the corner, leaving the two men bushed and breathing heavily.

"Are you all right?" she asked Cathy, who was standing in the dripping coat, apparently in shock. Next to her, Tiffany was in tears.

"I'm fine," said Cathy. "Just a little stunned."

"Your poor coat," wailed Tiffany.

"I'm afraid it's ruined," said Lucy, who felt like weeping at the loss.

"This old thing? I've had it for years. But why would anyone do something like this?"

"Animal rights," said the doorman, dusting himself off. "They don't approve of wearing fur so they do stuff like this. They even picketed the Nutcracker Nutcracker performances this year. My granddaughter was in tears, all upset about the little bunnies that were killed to make fur coats." performances this year. My granddaughter was in tears, all upset about the little bunnies that were killed to make fur coats."

"Well, they made a big mistake, then," said Cathy, dropping her coat on the sidewalk. "Because now I'm just going to buy a new coat, and they'll have to kill a whole lot of furry little critters-and they won't be bunnies, I can tell you that."

"What a shame," said Lucy, shaking her head over the coat.

"If you don't mind, I'll need a statement," said the officer, panting as he reached for his notebook.

"Not at all," said Cathy. She turned to go inside, pausing first to say good-bye to Lucy.

Alone on the sidewalk, Lucy started walking in the direction of the hospital. But as she walked, she kept replaying the attack in her mind, like a video: the roar of the motorbike, the riders in their Darth Vader helmets, the arc of thrown paint, and then the splatters that fell like blood. Her steps quickened and she was quite out of breath herself by the time she reached the hospital.

Chapter Eighteen.

THE NEW ETIQUETTE: WHEN IT'S OK TO E-MAIL The lunch trays had been delivered when Lucy arrived at the hospital but Elizabeth wasn't much interested.

"What exactly is Salisbury steak?" she asked, poking at a lump of mystery meat. It was covered with thick brown gravy and accompanied by an ice cream scoop of mashed potatoes with a puddle of bright orange margarine congealing on top.

"Are you going to eat it?" asked Lucy, who had eaten nothing all day except a bowl of cereal and too much coffee.

"No way. It's disgusting."

"You don't mind if I eat it, then?"

"It's your party," said Elizabeth, grimacing as Lucy took the tray and set it on her lap.

"When are they going to let me out of here?" asked Elizabeth. She was pressing the bed controls and suddenly shot from a reclining position to one that was bolt upright.

"I've been wondering the same thing," said Lucy, her mouth full of potato. "I keep hoping to run into the doctor but he's never here when I am."

"I'm not sick anymore. I feel fine," said Elizabeth, who was now lying on her back and raising her feet.

"Did you tell that to the doctor?"

"Sure. He just says that these things take time and I should be a patient patient." Elizabeth snorted. "It's his version of a joke."

"I wonder if it's something to do with the investigation. Maybe the FBI wants to keep you safe or under observation." Lucy had finished the main course and had moved on to the rubbery rice pudding. "Maybe one of the nurses can tell me something."

"They'll just tell you to talk to the doctor," said Elizabeth, who was now alternately raising her head and her feet.

Finally satisfied, Lucy sat back and took a sip of brown liquid that could have been either coffee or tea. She looked around the room, bright with sunshine and fragrant with flowers. A small flowering bonsai tree in a jade pot caught her eye. "Who gave you that pretty plant?" she asked.

"Brad and Samantha. They were here this morning."

"That was nice of them," said Lucy, giving the plant a closer look. "Did you read the card?"

"I didn't notice it," said Elizabeth. "But I did thank them. Really."

Lucy couldn't help smiling. If there was one thing she'd pounded into her kids' heads it was the importance of saying thank you and writing thank-you notes. That, and not opening someone else's mail. She passed the little envelope to Elizabeth, who opened it and pulled out a white card.

"There's no message. It's just his business card."

"Maybe the florist has a lot of corporate clients," said Lucy, tapping her chin thoughtfully with her finger. It had worked for the Trojans, she thought, why not her? Besides, what was the worst that could happen? She'd get thrown out on her ear. It was a risk she was willing to take, if there was even a slight possibility of talking to Arnold. "You don't need me, do you?" she asked.

Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"I have to make a delivery," she said, grabbing her coat and shooting out the door.

It wasn't until Lucy was standing in the lobby of Nelco's famous Millennium Building, holding an overpriced philodendron from a fancy florist in her hand, that she realized her plan needed work. She hadn't realized that most New York office buildings had instituted strict security measures after 9/11 and the Millennium Building was no exception. Access to the elevators was blocked by a security checkpoint complete with a metal detector and several uniformed officers who checked bags. Lucy watched the procedure for a few minutes and was about to turn away when she made a startling realization: they were looking for guns and explosives, but they weren't checking identities. And since she didn't have any guns or explosives, they would let her through.

She soon discovered, however, that the situation was quite different when she reached the top-floor offices of Nelco. There the elevator opened onto a once luxurious lobby that had been converted into something resembling the Berlin Wall's Checkpoint Charlie. The formerly welcoming and spacious reception area had been awkwardly divided with a seemingly impregnable metal and glass wall that limited access to a pair of sturdy sliding metal doors that were activated only after one had cleared a metal scanner. The entire area was under observation from numerous video cameras, and at least twenty armed and uniformed private security guards were on duty; Lucy had never seen anything like it, not even at the airport. She was immediately assigned to one of the two lines of people awaiting entry. The process was slow as each person was questioned and checked against a list before being allowed to pass through the space-age doors.

Lucy quickly decided that a quiet retreat was her best course of action. "Oops," she said while turning to go back to the elevator, "wrong floor."

Her way was immediately blocked by two of the largest men she had ever seen, both clad in matching blue and brown uniforms, with shaved heads and bulging biceps.

"I made a mistake," she said, appalled to discover her voice had become little more than a squeak.

"Just come this way," said one of the guards.

"But I already told you, I made a mistake. This is the wrong floor."

"We have a few questions."

Before she could utter another word, she was hustled across the lobby and through a cleverly disguised doorway she hadn't noticed before. She found herself in a small, bare room where she was immediately divested of her purse, coat, and plant and was thoroughly patted down by one of the guards while the other drew his gun and leveled it at her.

"What do you think you're doing?" she shrieked.

"Routine," said the guard with the gun.

"She's clean," said the other, who had worked his way down to her feet and removed her boots for examination, revealing a tattered pair of knee-highs.

"Give me those back!" she demanded.

Grinning, he handed the boots to her. "What is your business here?"

"I told you," she stammered. "I got off the elevator on the wrong floor."

His eyes were blank, his expression neutral. "What floor did you want?"

"Eighty-four."

"Why?"

"To deliver this plant."

"Who's it for?"

"Andrea Devine," said Lucy, feeling rather clever for coming up with a name so quickly.

"This Andrea Devine is with what firm?"

"Sparkman, Blute, and Blowfish."

As soon as she'd said it Lucy realized she'd made a mistake. She whirled and lunged for the door, and was actually through it, when she ran straight into another guard. He was shoving her back through the door when the elevator binged and the doors slid open revealing Arnold Nelson himself.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"This woman attempted to gain unauthorized entry," said the guard, who was gripping her firmly by her upper arms.

"Let me go!" shrieked Lucy.